


Drinking Etiquette

by Unuora



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Aziraphale and Crowley's night of drinking sabotaged by feelings, Crowley Has an Anxiety Disorder (Good Omens), Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-30
Updated: 2020-06-30
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:28:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24990814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Unuora/pseuds/Unuora
Summary: “You don’t need to—why would you need to thank me?” Crowley asks, standing up. All pretense of lazy drunkenness is gone now, and he paces around in an agitated circle. “I’m a demon.”“I think there is a lot,” Aziraphale says softly, not looking up as Crowley rummages around for a new bottle of wine. “There was Berlin, and then that time in Paris, and oh, once in Shiba and you--“ Aziraphale trails off slightly, noticing Crowley watching him intently. “The sashimi,” he finishes softly.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 73





	Drinking Etiquette

**Author's Note:**

> i wrote this sometime around when i watched the show for the first time in early summer 2019... and ive only just put the finishing touches on it and put it out there. oops

They’re not drunk, not anymore, though the bottles littering the floor might imply otherwise. It’s only because the sun is creeping up on them that they’re sober at all. For the sake of things they’re still pretending, and with Crowley sprawled on the couch and Aziraphale sat at his desk, they talked.

And talked, and talked, and…

Aziraphale stops midsentence. He has no idea what he was talking about. June bugs, maybe, but perhaps that was before the bit about rotary phones… He doesn’t remember, but he supposes it doesn’t matter. They talk a lot about nothing. They never talk about anything that matters at all.

Aziraphale stares over at Crowley’s loose limbed sprawl and wonders if that’s beginning to be a problem. It’s been... six thousand years. That’s lifetimes and lifetimes. The longevity of it makes his heart ache. The swell in his heart makes his throat go tight.

“I never,” Aziraphale starts. He stands up and sits on a chair closer to Crowley, eyeing the reckless splay of his limbs. The only thing Crowley does is note the subject change with a quirked eyebrow. “I never thought to thank you for the whole,” he waves his hand vaguely. “Apocalypse business.”

“Thank me,” Crowley scoffs. His glasses are perched on top of his head, and he peers open one yellow eye. “You’d never dare do such a thing.”

“Ah, yes, yes,” Aziraphale says without really listening. “You just—you could’ve left but you stayed to watch me squabble with Heaven.”

“I’d never leave you,” Crowley says. It’s a touch too honest, so he sits up, all bluster. His glasses fall off his head, ignored. “Besides, you’d think I’d miss a chance to see Heaven fumble?”

“Dear,” Aziraphale says softly. The tightness in his throat gets worse. “You’re my fondest friend, you know that, right?”

“Ah,” Crowley says, and the flush that crawls up his neck could easily be mistaken for an effect of the wine, if needed. “Yes, alright, cut it out. I’ll give you a pass on this one, just don’t spread it around.”

Now that Crowley’s sitting up there’s space on the couch for Aziraphale, who easily takes a seat despite Crowley’s vague protests. It's what he was waiting for, anyways.

“What do you think you’re doing, angel?” Crowley bites out in the dramatic way he’s best at. He flails an arm to express (feigned) exasperation. “I was lying there.”

“Oh, just let me,” Aziraphale scolds. It’s something that could cause them to be lost in bickering, but suddenly there’s not much appeal to that. Not when he feels this unsettled thing thrumming within him.

Despite Crowley’s objections he leans into Aziraphale’s warmth, the line of his body pressed against Aziraphale’s. Aziraphale just hums, finishing off his drink and putting his glass on the ground. “I don’t think you understand, dear.”

“Ah, I understand perfectly that you—“ Crowley breaks off with a cracking yawn that morphs into a long bodied stretch. “—you take up all the space on the couch just to irritate me.”

Aziraphale stares at him, inexplicably fond of the long sprawl of him, the way he watches Aziraphale in return through hooded eyes.

“It’s the first time that I haven’t been at odds with Heaven… or with myself… since Eden,” Aziraphale says, “And it’s made me realize some things.”

“Eh?” Crowley squints up at Aziraphale with hazy inquiry.

“You’ve always been so patient with me,” Aziraphale says, pillowing his hands in his lap. He wants to reach out, but he still has things to say. Things that can't go unsaid. “Begging Heaven for approval has always been unhealthy and you, well, you must’ve seen that.”

Slowly, Crowley sits up straighter but doesn’t move away. His thigh still stays pressed against Aziraphale’s, a burning reminder.

“Angel,” Crowley says eventually. “What are you getting at?”

Aziraphale laughs nervously. “Oh, oh, it’s—nothing is wrong, my dear,” Aziraphale says, giving in and grabbing one of Crowley’s hands in a gentle grip. He jolts in response, but still doesn’t pull away. “We’re on our own side, and it’s about time that I stop leaving you in the dark.”

“Well, you’re doing a terrible job so far,” Crowley says. “Temping isn’t your thing, but feel free to enlighten me and we can get on with whatever it is you want me to do.”

“No, no,” Aziraphale huffs out a laugh. Without his consent his gaze skitters away from Crowley. He curses himself, trying on a smile. “It’s just—you’re my dearest friend, Crowley.”

“You,” Crowley licks his lips. Gently, he pulls his hand away from Aziraphale’s. “Yes, you said that already.”

“I’m sorry,” Aziraphale stammers, pulling his now empty hands back into his lap. He can still feel where he touched Crowley, like an afterimage on his skin. “I just wanted to thank you for being so good to me over these years and here I am making you uncomfortable—“

“You don’t need to—why would you need to _thank_ me?” Crowley asks, standing up. All pretense of lazy drunkenness is gone now, and he paces around in an agitated circle. “I’m a demon.”

“I think there is a lot,” Aziraphale says softly, not looking up as Crowley rummages around for a new bottle of wine. “There was Berlin, and then that time in Paris, and oh, once in Shiba and you--“ Aziraphale trails off slightly, noticing Crowley watching him intently. “The sashimi,” he finishes softly.

“That’s—that’s nothing to _thank_ me for.” Crowley wrenches off the cork with his teeth and Aziraphale can’t quite suppress a wince. “I’m just doing my _tempting_ and distracting you from your job.”

“Is that…” Aziraphale starts, watching Crowley take a big gulp of the wine. “Is that what you think it was?”

“It doesn’t _matter_ ,” Crowley hisses, “it’s what happened, innit? And in the eyes of the Almighty…”

“You said,” Aziraphale’s throat clicks with a swallow. “Our own side.”

“Yes, well,” he’s losing steam, and he waves an arm vaguely. “I meant… the Arrangement.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale says, trying to temper the disappointment in his voice. Evidentially he doesn’t succeed because Crowley’s face softens into wounded concern.

“Did you…” Crowley’s eyes flicker to Aziraphale’s hands, delicately and unobtrusively tucked in his lap. “…mean something else?”

“No, no,” Aziraphale manages, nearly making his voice as light as he wants it. With a wave of his hand there’s a wineglass at his side. “The wine, please.” But Crowley’s staring at him, eyes wide and vulnerable without his glasses. He doesn’t hand over the wine.

“Angel, I—” He cuts off abruptly, his voice hoarse.

“Dear, it’s no matter, don’t think on it. If you—“

“No!” Crowley says, then much quieter. “Angel, can you—can you tell me what—what did you mean?”

Aziraphale sighs. “I thought—oh, Crowley, I thought we could be together, now that Heaven and Hell weren’t breathing down our necks.”

“Together,” Crowley says faintly. He paces in that anxious circle again. “That’s—that’s ridiculous, you can’t mean that—“

“Can’t I?” Aziraphale grabs Crowley’s arm, stopping his incessant velocity. “Please, dear, sit down. You’re making me dizzy.”

“How can you say such a thing—I’m a demon and you’re on about this, this together nonsense as if our whole arrangement wasn’t bad enough already,” Crowley says, gesturing broadly, not letting Aziraphale pull him down. “And now here you are telling me that you think just because Heaven and Hell have their tail between their legs that everything is safe and—“

“Crowley, will you stop, please,” Aziraphale says sternly, and obligingly Crowley’s mouth snaps shut. Closing his eyes briefly, Aziraphale sighs. “It’s no matter, dear, if you want our relationship to stay the same, but I—will you tell me what else is bothering you?”

“What is—what is _bothering_ me—after six thousand years and you,” he looks at Aziraphale, eyes wary and unsure. “… all this time, I thought we were on the same page.”

“Clearly _not_ ,” Aziraphale huffs, glaring at Crowley. “Will you please explain of going on,” he waves his hand around in a short dismissive gesture. “You’re not making any sense.”

“I thought you _knew_ ,” Crowley says, and the words sound scathing even though he visibly reels himself back as soon as he hears it in his voice. “Of course I want to be with you. I’ve wanted it for—for millennia. But we’ve always—I thought you meant—“ He cuts himself off, and Aziraphale’s left to do the mental math.

“And, what, that we had it all squared away because it was… wrong? Or too dangerous?” Aziraphale’s asks, aghast, half to himself. When he looks back at Crowley he finds him struck silent, almost terrified. He sees those six thousand years, those endless lifetimes all lost in confusion behind his eyes. The idea Crowley thought all this time that Aziraphale _wanted_ it that way, that he _knew_ about their feelings…“You should’ve _talked_ to me.”

“For—about what, Aziraphale, you were terrified at the very idea of fighting back—“

“The holy water was not fighting back,” Aziraphale says sharply, shuddering out an exhale. “I was too terrified to help you through your own fear and I’m sorry, but Crowley that doesn’t mean I didn’t—“

“Stop,” Crowley says, and he takes a step back, and then another. To Aziraphale each one feels like a blow. This isn’t solving anything, they need to talk, they need— “Stop this, this is ridiculous, all these sorries and past tenses and it’s not going to—“

“Crowley!”

“—Change a goddamned thing, angel.” Crowley takes his glasses from where they’ve fallen on the couch and jams them back on. “I’m still a demon and our side or not this is—you always said this is asking for trouble.”

“But you said it yourself,” Aziraphale says as gently as he can. It’s hard not to let his emotions show, feeling grief and frustration in equal measures. But with Crowley looking like he’s seconds from bolting this is not the time for arguing. “They’re not looking at us anymore. Come here, dear.” Instead of this being soothing this makes Crowley hiss, turning away.

“I have to go,” Crowley chokes out, sounding wretched and pushes his way to the door. It’s only Aziraphale’s fast reflexes that stop him before he’s out onto the streets of Soho. It’s an experience that has Aziraphale’s heart caught in his throat, feeling like he’s about to lose another lifetime in a sea of endless years.

“No,” Aziraphale says, grabbing Crowley’s wrist and tugging him back to him. His mind reels with something to keep him grounded here, something to convince him. “Crowley—millennia?”

Weakly, Crowley tries to wrench away but he doesn’t quite succeed. Even with the glasses he takes on an expression not unlike prey being hunted. It’s something that Aziraphale’s felt eerily familiar with since the Antichrist’s birth.

“I’ve been obsessed with you since Eden,” Crowley admits, a secret ever so quiet. Quiet or not, it makes Aziraphale’s heart trip in his chest.

“Oh,” Aziraphale breathes.

“You can’t do this—we can’t do this. It’s stupid—“

“I’ve wanted this for ages, you know,” Aziraphale interrupts, trying to will Crowley to look back up at him. “Perhaps not since Eden, but it’s been—this isn’t just some impulsive victory fling.”

Crowley laughs like it’s an emotion burst out of him, recklessly, unhinged.

“Can’t, you should know that—“

“Please, Crowley,” Aziraphale says, putting a hand to Crowley’s cheek and tilting his face up to see the fear written there. “Let me kiss you?”

“Please don’t,” Crowley chokes out, his voice cracking.

“Can I see your eyes at least?” Aziraphale runs his knuckles against Crowley’s jaw, pleased when he nods an agreement. Gently, Aziraphale eases Crowley’s glasses off, feeling his heart constrict at the sight of those yellow eyes. It’s an experience he’s familiar with, but it surprises him every time.

“I’m a demon, Aziraphale,” Crowley says lowly, looking askance. “You can’t forget that.”

“Why do you think that matters?”

Crowley makes a disjointed noise that never resolves itself into words. “It’s—it’s always mattered, you bring it up all the time, and—“ He stops, a hesitating moment. “You’ll remember again.”

“You’ve always been the loveliest demon, and the only being I’ve ever loved,” Aziraphale admits, truly expecting this to be convincing only to be alarmed when Crowley wrenches away again, harder this time. It’s enough to break his grasp, but not enough to really move any distance away. Crowley hovers, uncertain, like he can’t decide if he wants to fall in Aziraphale’s arms or run right out the door.

“I don’t understand why you’re doing this,” Crowley hisses, angrier than before, but all Aziraphale can pay attention to is the emotion so obviously barely held back. Crowley rubs the heel of his hand against his flushed face, harshly, furiously.

“I don’t—Crowley, I—“ The curl of worry in his voice is unintentional, and he can’t quite tamp it down. Not in the face of Crowley’s uncharacteristic distress. Not after everything. “You said you wanted… you wanted this, but if you don’t, that’s—darling, that’s fine. I only want to know what you want.”

“I want _everything_ ,” Crowley grinds out. “And if it ever comes to the point where you don’t want— or Satan help us, can’t—give it to me anymore then I’ll—I don’t know if I can handle that.”

“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale says, cautiously approaching him again. “You can have everything.” Crowley looks at him, face flushed with barely suppressed emotion and Aziraphale shakes his head, overwhelmed. “I’ve loved you for decades, centuries, too afraid to admit it even to myself—what makes you believe I’d turn away now?”

“You can’t mean that,” Crowley says, clenching his eyes closed.

“Can I kiss you?” Aziraphale asks again, touching Crowley’s check again.

“Fuck,” Crowley croaks.

“I love you so entirely, my dear,” Aziraphale says, brushing back a tear that makes its way down Crowley’s cheek. “Don’t push me away now that we’ve finally got the chance.”

“Angel,” Crowley says, and then he kisses Aziraphale.

Despite how it feels as if he’ll shake apart he kisses Aziraphale as if he’s trying to confess everything. He grips at Aziraphale, trembling hands fluttering from his arms to the long expanse of his neck, to settle on the curve of his jaw if only to haul him closer. It’s a messy thing, teeth clacking, limbs in the way, Crowley’s glasses digging into the bridge of his nose. It doesn’t seem to matter, because the kiss still pulls a wounded noise from Crowley. It’s all Aziraphale can do but draw closer, closer, closer.

It’s the closeness the both of them have dreamed of for years and years. It’s Crowley hauling Aziraphale back into the comfort of the bookshop, back into his seat on the couch where he belongs. Its Crowley climbing on top of Aziraphale, panting as if he’d run miles, and trembling like it, too.

“Are you okay?” Aziraphale runs a hand down Crowley’s spine, inciting a shiver.

“Yes,” he breathes. “Yes. Yes.” He takes off his glasses, tossing them somewhere. Without them he has free reign to tuck his face against Aziraphale’s neck. It’s incredibly endearing, having Crowley cling to him this way.

“It’s okay if you need to take things slow,” Aziraphale says, and the hint of wryness in his voice makes Crowley snarl into his shoulder.

“I—ah, I’m fine.” It’s somewhat belied by the fact he can’t seem to catch his breath. Every point of contact between them feels like fire, straight to burning. It’s enough to make Aziraphale’s breath catch in his throat, and apparently enough to shake Crowley to pieces. Once he seems to settle he peeks up at Aziraphale, wide, yellow eyes gleaming at him, and Aziraphale practically feels his heart crashing in his ribcage.

“What do you need from me, love?” Aziraphale’s hand rests, soft and comforting at the back of Crowley’s neck. The weight of it seems to ground him from where he feels himself floating, pulling him back to Aziraphale.

“Stay,” Crowley says, after a slow moment. “Just stay.”

Aziraphale miracles a blanket on top of them, shuffling down in the couch to get comfortable. It’s not hard, with Crowley in his arms this way he thinks he could stay here for eternity. And when Crowley hazards a glance up at him again he smiles down at him, feeling fondness well up in him like an overflowing pool.

“Forever,” he says.

**Author's Note:**

> shout out to the fact i wrote this whole set up for a scene i ended up not including bc i felt like it didn't fit. rip. (-_＼)
> 
> i hope you enjoyed! thanks so much for reading.


End file.
